


in the shadow of the valley

by orphan_account



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/M, Romance, Spoilers, not a very happy story sorry, sort of?? the game has been out a long time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23572255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: General Brasidas, infused with the Eagle-Bearer’s might. Her blessing is upon him forever more.
Relationships: Brasidas/Kassandra (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	in the shadow of the valley

**Author's Note:**

> i basically wanted to write a love letter to Kassandra from Brasidas' POV, as well as explore how the crazy in-game mechanics might manifest in terms of deifying Kassandra and Alexios, but then Brasidas just took over the story and this ended up half-being a character study about him... that's cool too i guess
> 
> still. kassandra #1
> 
> @title thank you fallout:nv. great game

The air grows warmer and the mountains lush. The peak of spring has arrived in the valley — and with it comes the Eagle-Bearer.

  
  


.

  
  


Brasidas remembers when he first met Kassandra like he remembers the tale of Achilles. It is a scene worthy of immortalizing, and she is a woman worthy of oral tradition. With nothing more than a pair of tiny daggers, against all physical odds, she takes down four men. Her strikes are fluid, her dance acrobatic and vicious like a lynx. 

When she turns to him, blood dripping from her armor and speckling her cheeks, her eyes flashing gold in the firelight, she looks like a goddess of war.

Later, he comes to find she acts like one. She has little sympathy for the common man, only performing jobs where the promise of drachma is high. She walks, untouchable, through cities where there’s a thousand-gold bounty on her head, publicly and brutally taking down any fellow misthios who make the mistake of coming for her life. Her very presence demands worship.

Like a goddess, her loyalty extends to those select few in her inner circle for which she will do anything short of plucking the moon out of the sky. If asked, she will kill, she will maim, she will manipulate, she will steal. She will win wars and overthrow leaders. She will reignite economies and decimate others.

Somehow, Brasidas finds himself in the much-envied position of being one of her inner circle.

“We make an excellent team,” Kassandra muses as they finish shuffling away the bodies of the Monger and his men. 

“We do,” Brasidas agrees. “It is the Spartan blood that sings in harmony when we fight.”

“That may be. But perhaps it is just us.” Kassandra moves toward him then, and clasps him by the forearm, on the shoulder. The two points of contact are like a torch to his skin. She looks him in the eye and her eyes are golden again. There is no trick of the light. Her voice is solemn and low when she says, “If there’s ever anything you need, allow me to take care of it.” 

“Do not worry, Kassandra, for this old Spartan can take care of himself,” Brasidas rebuffs gently. “Let me know if _you_ ever need anything, my friend.”

She says nothing, but laughs. It is not a laugh like birdsong or church bells. 

And so Brasidas comes to be privy to the legend’s trust and care. Privy to use of the greatest weapon in the Greek world, says a darker part of his mind.

  
  


.

  
  


“Brasidas,” Kassandra greets, pulling him into a friendly embrace. “It’s good to see you again, friend.”

“And you as well,” he says in turn. “Sparta is blessed to have both you and Myrrine return. Perhaps our fortunes in the war will change with your presence here.”

It is the wrong thing to say, for the warmth in her eyes vanishes and her smile grows bitter. “Of course. The kings surely have some wars lined up for me to win.”

_Doesn’t everyone?_ she leaves unsaid. 

Perhaps it is for this reason that she elevates herself above mankind. A protective shell to prevent the world at large from using her gifts too freely, from sucking her talents dry with their pleas and demands. Perhaps her kindness and mercy has already been spent.

This is an unpleasant realization for him, who has also entertained the notion of setting her onto his enemies like an attack dog. 

He quickly disposes her of the notion that he wants her only for her utility to Sparta.

“Let us concern ourselves with the kings tomorrow. Tonight, I have food and song lined up for you.” Brasidas claps one hand on her upper back and begins leading her toward the residential district. “And for the rest of the days, my home is yours and Myrrine’s for as long as it takes to get your own back.”

“You are too generous,” she stutters, seeming human for once. Has no one offered her kindness in return for her deeds? Has she received nothing but the cold metal of drachma and ceremonial weapons?

“Kassandra, you are my friend and a fellow Spartan. You have a right to this land.” He smiles softly. “Welcome home.”

  
  


.

  
  


To succeed in Sparta, you must exhibit the standard ideals: bravery, strength, honor. You must sculpt yourself in the image of great heroes, of Leonidas and Perseus.

But for how much and how frequently Spartans disdain the Athenians and their loquacious manner, it is also imperative to success in Sparta that you carry a certain gift for people. You must learn how to sway fellow Spartans not only with your battle prowess, but with words and gestures of goodwill.

_Brasidas the Kind,_ he thinks to himself as Kassandra stands in his dining quarters, nearly tearing up at the small celebration he has put together. _Brasidas the Silver-Tongued._

But is it so wrong to offer kind gestures and words to her, who had never received such, if he expects nothing in return?

Is it wrong to secure an asset for Sparta, if he truly does care about it?

  
  


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It does not take much to deconstruct a goddess. Merely a smile here and there, brotherly touches given freely and without hesitation — for who without a death wish would dare touch the sin-stained skin of Eagle-Bearer — and finally, questions asked by the soft glow of the fire, night after night, with wine flushing in their cheeks.

It takes the smallest acts of comfort and friendship to peel back the ruthlessness, the mistrust, the bloodthirst. Underneath Athena, he finds smiles that aren’t all teeth, and he finds stories of lost families and found ones. She tells him of Mount Taygetos (fear, desperation, a betrayal that she cut so deeply she feels it at all times, even now). She waxes about her days in Kephallonia, young and innocent, with Markos and Phoibe. Oh, dearest Phoibe, who they toast to, who makes a legend’s voice catch. Kassandra catalogues the nations she’s overturned and the strange, varied encounters she’s had with strange, varied men and women (she introduces him to the Socratic method by using it, bursting into peals of laughter at his irritation. Then, when he asks for stories of the man himself, it is his turn to laugh at her annoyance while recounting them). 

She recalls to him in low tones the days when she arrived in Phokis, fresh out of Kephallonia and before her reputation preceded her, and her encounters with the sweet healer Lykaon and the fiery Daphnae. Very few, since then, have been willing to come so close, Kassandra says. And even fewer that she’s trusted. Then she looks up at him cautiously. Her gaze burns.

_Oh_. He never knew this was a possibility. 

  
  


.

  
  


It doesn’t take much to deconstruct a goddess. A smile here and there, curling against bronze skin and strong thighs; touches given freely and without hesitation, rewarded with soft pants and wounded noises against his ear; and finally, tight embraces by the fire, wrapped together on furs and feeling the warmth of each other’s skin. 

Again, and again. Once more with feeling.

  
  


.

  
  


Kassandra wins a region, then two, for Sparta, then an Olympic wreath. 

Somewhere along the way, Brasidas falls in love. And people take notice.

He’s called for a private audience with Pausanias. He goes to the king’s home with a dagger strapped to his thigh, and one in his boot.

“Ah, Brasidas. Sparta’s most prized general. The earth splits where you walk, and Athenians fall into the depths of Hades.” Despite his admiring language and tone, Pausanias’ body betrays him. His chin held a bit too high, superior, and his shoulders tense. That was always the king’s problem. He could speak like his voice was lined with gold, but his posture never matched. And Brasidas, who is ever careful about these things, picks up on it with ease.

“My king,” Brasidas says. He falls into a bow, then waits.

Pausanias waits, too. The long silence would have its intended effect had Brasidas not been so practiced at playing this game.

“Not long ago, I thought you an enemy of mine,” Pausanias begins. The frankness startles him, and it must show. “Do not fear, General. That thought is no longer. Our interests align quite well now.”

The king rises and paces the room. “I always saw myself in you. I still do. Strength, yet cunning. Not just a mindless brute,” he sneers. “You’re intelligent. Charismatic. And you’ve captured the Eagle-Bearer’s heart. I offer my sincerest congratulations.”

“You speak generously.”

“Don’t I? Well, I have even more generous news for you. Should you and the Eagle-Bearer decide to wed, her and her mother would be granted full citizenship in Sparta and the black mark on their family revoked. They would not have to live as outcasts on the fringe of society, barely tolerated by neighbors, talked about in private as lower than helots. Myrrine would be free to rise again in status. And Kassandra, too, of course. Despite her poorly hidden murder of Nikalaos.”

“That sounds… very agreeable. But even if she were to desire me so strongly, I am not certain Kassandra is the type to marry.”

Pausanias waves his hand dismissively. “She would not be expected to perform the standard duties of a Spartan wife. She would be free to run about and live her life as she pleases for years. She’s much more valuable without bearing children now. And you have already contributed strong sons to Sparta. There is no expectation here. No. It is merely a matter of irreversibly tying her loyalties here.” He looks Brasidas in the eye. “For the good of the nation. You understand.”

And he does. He thought of it in the beginning, and he’s thought of it many times since. Even being in love, he’s thought it.

“If I propose, it will be for love. Not because of your machinations,” Brasidas dares to challenge.

Pausanias smiles slyly. “I look forward to the announcement of your nuptials.”

  
  


.

  
  


He doesn’t get the chance to bring it up, for he and Myrrine are sent off hunting for information on the Cult. He thinks of mentioning his suspicions toward Pausanias to Kassandra, but he is wary that she will act too quickly on them. Beautiful, vengeful Kassandra, who does and says what she pleases. An unstoppable typhoon. 

So he says nothing. They part with a kiss, and meet weeks later to discuss Lagos. Brasidas’ old friend, now improbably a cultist leader. 

“He must die,” Myrrine insists.

“And he will.” Kassandra’s face is ablaze with fury, blue fire in the dark of night. “I will hunt him and end him slowly, as he has guaranteed the slow death of so many.” 

“This Cult is like a hydra. You cut off one head, another grows back. It would be better to discover the motivation behind his actions and turn him to our side,” Brasidas protests. “I know Lagos. He would not do this without good reason.” 

“If the cult is a hydra, I will cut off every head, again and again, until it is but a squirming, pathetic worm. Lagos made his choice. I do not care the reason for it.”

Assured that she has won, Myrrine leaves them to their argument. For a time more, Brasidas tries desperately to make her see reason. Finally, he says, “Please, my love. Come with me to the safehouse and we will do this together. As I hope we will do all things together, in the future.”

Kassandra blinks. She steps back in surprise, then two quick steps closer. Her expression has dimmed from righteous fury to confusion.

“Do you mean to say…” Her lips part.

“I do. I would marry you, Kassandra, and have you be mine and only mine. I would live my days out with you, travelling the world aboard the Adrestia and hunting for adventure. I would grow old with you in Sparta and train our children in the way of the spear. I would grow old with you anywhere.” He takes her hands in hers. “I love you, Kassandra.”

“I could not be a normal wife.”

“I would not want you to be.” 

Their lips meet, their fingers lacing. Brasidas can feel her heartbeat in his hands.

“I will come with you,” she sighs when they part. “And when my hunt for the Cult ends…”

“Our hunt,” he corrects her. “When our hunt ends, we will wed under the watch of Hera in Sparta.”

She smiles — vicious, delighted. “Let us go, then, so that day may arrive all the sooner.”

  
  


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Kassandra returns from Lagos’ fortress with a gleaming belt of Spartan armor. For a moment, Brasidas is fearful that she will pull out his friends’ head from the pack attached to her horse. But what she retrieves is a letter.

“Lagos gave this to me after I saved his family. It provides undeniable proof that King Pausanias is a cultist,” she explains. There’s an odd lilt to her voice.

“Are you alright, my love?” Brasidas comes close.

“Lagos and his family were very grateful. It was strange to be the subject of their praise. I am not often treated like a hero,” she says drily.

Brasidas pulls her into his arms and murmurs, “You should get used to it. You are saving the world, Kassandra.”

She huffs. “I know that. Other people don’t. I am like a titan to them. They fear me.”

“Oh, my young love.” Brasidas kisses her.

He does not want to say any more. He does not want to have to lie.

  
  


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Everyone fears her. She is otherworldly. A beast, a goddess, a monster, a titan. Rumors of an ethereal arrow killing polemarchs through fortress walls. A woman appearing and disappearing at will. Ikaros, who can see all, whose sharp cries become a harbinger of death.

He fears the concept of her, as well. 

(And sometimes, when he thinks of the words: _loyalty to Sparta_ and _a weapon to use_ — he fears her. What might she do to him, should she discover his love for her is not untainted?)

  
  


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Pausanias takes his exile with aplomb. He stalks out the gates of Sparta with his head held high, two guards escorting him as though he is being walked to a hanging. In the middle of the road, not far from the city’s boundaries, Kassandra and Brasidas await him.

He meets their eyes defiantly. For all that he was a snake in the grass, corrupt and venomous, for all that he worked against Sparta’s interests, he greets death with interminable spirit. Brasidas admires that.

“The Eagle-Bearer and her loyal pet,” Pausanias says mockingly. “Or perhaps it is the other way around?”

Kassandra twirls her daggers and scoffs. “Speak no more, Pausanias. You can save your voice for the realm of Hades.” 

She leaps for him. Brasidas takes care of the guards in a few thrusts of his spear and a parry. When their blood stains the dirt, he looks to see Kassandra at work.

Her daggers are a blur, moving as an extension of her body. Pausanias stands no chance, as helpless as a jetty in a hurricane. As if by sorcery, cuts appear all over his body, releasing his lifeblood. When he drops to the ground like a rag doll, covered in open wounds, she steps back. Watches, waits. Wanting to see him slowly bleed to death.

This maleficent deity of a woman. He loves her so much it aches. He wonders at himself, that he can love someone so cruel, so divine. That she could love him back.

Brasidas walks over, spear in hand. 

“What a perfect couple you make,” Pausanias manages a strained chuckle, “I hope you have a long and happy marriage.”

Brasidas stabs his spear through the former king’s skull. It’s over. Why does his stomach roll with nerves?

“How did he know?”

He turns to his lover, but she is the Eagle-Bearer now, and her eyes are gold.

“How did he know we were to be married?” she repeats.

  
  


.

  
  


_It was a suggestion. I had plans for it anyway._

_Don’t let his manipulations ruin this._

_I love you. Please. I love you, Kassandra, please, believe me._

She leaves, of course. His words fall on deaf ears. The Eagle-Bearer is not in the habit of listening to liars and manipulators, silver-tongued devils such as he.

He sees her again at Pylos. While he lies on the ground, knocked down in one blow like an insolent child, he watches her fight her brother: Athena and Ares clashing as they shower the battlefield in meteors of golden light. 

He prays for her triumph. He prays and prays even as his vision fades.

  
  


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When she does not return to Sparta after the battle, he thinks the worst. He lays in his sickbed and mourns for his love, young and magnificent who he allowed to slip between his trembling hands. In his infection-induced fevers, he dreams of her alternately as a vindictive spirit raining hellfire upon the valley and a benevolent deity granting boons to the deserving. In both, the people prostrate themselves before her. He, too.

His visions are not so different from reality. The first whisper comes: The Eagle-Bearer has been seen in the east, deposing a corrupt leader in Lesbos. South, becoming champion of a mysterious Arena. All over the Greek world, she travels, the earth and seas trembling with each step. But never back to Lakonia.

He understands.

When he is recovered, Brasidas returns to the battlefield. An icy grip wraps around his heart and squeezes. People say he is harsher than before. He executes traitors without a second thought; he burns civilians in their homes if they catch wind of his legion’s position. He frustrates the Athenians at Megara, then goes on to take Acanthus, Stagirus. He is ruthless, yet more effective than ever.

General Brasidas, infused with the Eagle-Bearer’s might. Her blessing is upon him forever more.

Little do they know that it feels more like a curse. Her absence claws at him every second. It resonates from his toes to the hair on his head.

  
  


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Three years later, Kassandra appears in Amphipolis as suddenly as a ghost.

“Brasidas,” she says. There’s a longing in her voice that is quickly caged. “I have come to help the war effort.”

He exhales in shock. “Kassandra. I — we welcome it. Yet after all this time…?”

She grips her spear more tightly. “My brother will be here.”

Ah. She is not here for _him_.

He feels his expression shutter. “It will be an honor to fight alongside you, Eagle-Bearer.”

He directs her to the quartermaster’s tent, where she can have her weapons sharpened before battle. She goes without another word, and her silence speaks volumes.

This will be the end of it, he thinks. She will kill her brother and he will never see his love again. And Brasidas will fight ever on for Sparta, this day and the next, until he goes to the fields of Elysium. 

They go to battle.

  
  


.

  
  


In every fight, his own death is an afterthought for him. He is far more concerned with killing, with the crunch of his spear in another man’s throat, with the gaping tear he has just ripped into a boy’s stomach. He is searching for his next quarry, always. 

In this fight, facing down Kassandra’s brother once more, death looms over his shoulder. He has become prey.

“Brasidas of Sparta,” Deimos says, drawing out the syllables indolently. His gaze, golden, could turn men into stone. Just like Kassandra, he is a cruel and merciless god. The world is fortunate they happened to fall on opposite sides. “A favorite of my sister.”

“Not anymore,” Brasidas counters, and even after years, the words are a physical hurt. 

“We shall see.” Deimos grins, a savage expression. It tucks away the handsome shape of his face into sharp, ferocious lines. “We shall see if she mourns after I rip your spine through your chest.”

Brasidas readies his spear and makes peace with the gods.

**Author's Note:**

> i ALSO wanted to do a fix-it but i guess i'm incapable of writing happy endings!!! great
> 
> hope you enjoyed!


End file.
